Bloom
by Cortana Bennet
Summary: If everything was sacrificed for you, would you change?  If someone unexpected showed you the way, would you let yourself be led?  A story of moving toward that elusive state of mind: happiness.
1. Prologue

A/N: Thank you to the ever lovely dormiensa who alphaed, betaed, cheerleadered, and listened to me complain, and all within one week of the due date. She's fantabulous! And a thank you to my father who, without knowing it, made me write in my spare time. The Faulkner reference is for him.

**Prologue**

"What the fuck have you done?"

His voice was a harsh whisper. His eyes, wide and unblinking, stared down at the two broken pieces of his hawthorn wand that she was holding in her hand. She could hear the tremble in his voice, not as much of anger as of fear. And he was right to be afraid—a wandless wizard was a dead wizard, especially in this house.

But she had done it for him. She had done it to free him, and one day, hopefully, he would forgive her.

A guttural whimper seemed to pass through his lips unbidden, and she felt her own eyes well with tears. He had had so little happiness in his short life, and yet had been subjected to a host of horrific and burdensome experiences that no one should have had to go through, especially one so young and naïve.

"How could you?" He continued to stare at her hands, and she realized the tremble in his voice had moved to his hands.

"Draco, I did this for you. Very soon, you will see."

He looked up at her, his eyes wet with unshed tears, but he made no move to wipe them away. Maybe he wanted her to see how much he was affected.

"And how, how is this for me?" She watched his fists clench at his sides, masking their shaking. "Do you want me dead? Do you want me dead, Mother?"

Narcissa Malfoy bowed her head, shaking it slowly, back and forth. The thought that he could believe that cut her deeply, but she supposed she deserved it. He just didn't understand.

"No, of course not; that is why I took it. I suppose breaking it was unnecessary, when I will have to destroy it."

At that Draco looked completely mortified, and confounded. "Mother, what are you talking about?"

Narcissa wasn't one to play mind games—that had been best left to her husband—and looked her son directly in the eye. "You're leaving," and glancing at the clock over her son's shoulder, she continued, "in less than fifteen minutes."

"What? Where?" He paused and with even more incredulity asked, "Why?"

"I'm getting you out of here, so you will be safe. So you won't _die_." She gave Draco a pointed look.

"Am I going to the Order?"

Narcissa bit back an unladylike snort. "Good heavens, no. I don't trust them with you."

Before he could comment, which she could see he was about to do, she continued.

"Draco, we don't have much time. Your Portkey will activate in . . . twelve minutes. I need to tell you as much as I can, as much I have time to."

She pulled an old paperback book out of her robes and held it out toward him, watching her son, her beautiful boy, shake his head slowly, clearly attempting to process this information. His mind was working furiously, and before the words were even out of his mouth, she knew what he was going to say.

"I can't leave. I can't leave you. I have to protect you . . . since Father is . . . dead." He spat out the last word, obviously still hurt and bitter at Lucius for more things than either of them could count. Narcissa couldn't blame him, but now wasn't the time for grievances.

"Yes you can, and you will. I have taken care of arrangements for myself." His look said he didn't believe her. "Draco, I promise you, the Dark Lord will not hurt me."

"Now," Narcissa said, sweeping her hand through the air, effectively ending that discussion, "I cannot tell you where you are going because I do not know myself—in order to keep you safe. But I did meet the people you will stay with, and they are very kind and will protect you."

Draco just stood in front of her with his mouth slightly agape, and although it all made sense to her, she knew she had gone over it thousands of times in her head. Poor Draco was just hearing this for the first time.

"Mother, this makes no sense. Wizards don't just _leave_ the Dark Lord. I'm as good as dead anyway if I do. And if he finds out you helped, so are you! Whatever you are planning, forget it." He turned on his heel and started pacing the room, muttering to himself about procuring a new wand and keeping her out of the Dark Lord's sight.

"Draco." He continued to pace, and she crossed her arms over her chest. "Son."

She still received no response, and Narcissa felt a little sick thinking that she may have to hex him to get him to listen and comply. "Draco Abraxas Malfoy! Sit down, now."

Once a boy, always a boy. He stopped suddenly and looked ashamed under her fierce gaze; he dropped into a chair, his shoulders drooping as his head bowed. As Narcissa sat down in the chair in front of him, dropping the book onto a small table, she was reminded of how torn her son was. He looked like a man but had the actions of a child. He had so much to learn and to grow into. And it reaffirmed her already solid conviction that what she was doing was right—even if she never saw him again.

"Our time together is running out. You need to listen to me and listen well. You _are_ leaving. Even if I have to Stun you and place your hand on that Portkey, you are going. I cannot tell you much, for I know so little, but you will be provided for; I have taken care of that. I wouldn't want you to do without."

Draco's blonde head shot up. "Money? Money? You think I care about that? At a time like this? Mother, I'd give it all up, if just to be free of . . . this." He gestured wildly around him, his eyes feverish with anxiety.

And just as feverishly, she leaned forward, tapping his leg. "And you shall be. But you won't be penniless while doing it."

"What will I do? When can I come back?" He sounded, and looked, annoyed and petulant, the teenager in him raging.

"Again, questions I cannot answer. The family assured me there will activities for you to engage in. As far as when you can come back, it all depends."

"On what?"

"On when this war ends. How it ends." She paused. "On whether you want to or not." Then Narcissa leaned forward and cupped one of his flushed cheeks with her hand.

"Draco, I will miss you so much."

The boy appeared again as he tilted his face into her hand, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

"Don't make me go, Mother. I don't want to leave you."

The words "I'm scared" remained unspoken, but Narcissa heard them like they were shouted at her, and her heart broke a little more.

"I don't want to leave you either, my sweet Dragon."

His tears quietly but quickly ran down his face as he whispered, "Then why are you making me go? Don't you love me?"

That last question crushed her, and she stroked the other side of his face before answering.

"It is because I love you that I am making you go. All I want is for you to be happy. And you never will be . . . not if you stay here, not if you aren't exposed to something else. You deserve the opportunity to be the man I know you can be."

Draco dropped out of the chair and onto to his knees, hugging her as if she might pop out of sight at any moment. She returned the embrace and held onto him as if her life depended on it.

Suddenly, the Portkey alarm sounded, alerting her to the fact that she only had three more minutes with her only child.

She pulled back and held him at arm's length, looking him over, wanting to remember every detail of him, and as she stared, she felt her throat close up. She didn't want to let him go. He was her baby, her child, her son. But instead, she took a deep breath and said quickly,

"Draco, I need you to do three things for me." He nodded as she looked at him expectantly. "Be open-minded. Please, please."

Her voice sounded desperate, and she was. This would all be for naught if he didn't at least try to look beyond the veil his father had placed over his eyes.

"I know you will be around witches and wizards, but I am sure you will be around Muggles as well. Please be tolerant and learn to embrace the differences you see in other people. Will you please try?"

Draco looked doubtful but nodded slowly.

"And I want you to find something that engages your mind. You are so talented and bright—use your gifts to do something you love, that will fulfill you."

Narcissa glanced at the book, and as she rushed to finish what she wanted, no, needed to say, she moved her hands down from his upper arms to his hands, squeezing them tightly.

"Draco, let go. Let go of the pain, and the hate, and the sorrow of this life, and go live another one. Don't remain trapped by . . . all of this. Accept what it was and move forward. Grow."

She watched his face, and she could see so much confusion there. But there was so little she could do about that now. Preparation would have been dangerous, for both of them—not that it would have made it easier on him. He probably would have fought her harder. Narcissa released one of his hands, leaned over and picked the book up from the table, and pressed it into his hands.

"Mother . . . " He trailed off, looking down at the Portkey in his hands.

"I know you think I am abandoning you; I know you are confused. But if you take nothing else I say to heart, just know that to me, you are . . . everything. And why I do everything I do."

"But why—"

Narcissa cut him off with a shake of her head. "You won't understand or agree with all the decisions I have made over the years, and some I do not understand or agree with either, but this one," she jabbed her finger at the book, "this one is right. And I know it."

She cupped his face with her hands and, gently leaning down, pressed her lips to his forehead, whispering, "I love you so much, my son. Never forget that."

Still on his knees, Draco cast his grey eyes up at his mother and repeated her sentiment.

"I love you too, Mother. I don't understand . . . I don't know what to feel."

Narcissa then embraced him, knowing she only had a few seconds left before she would be reminded of the activation. He held her and she held him, equally giving and receiving. When the final alarm sounded, it was too soon, and she wanted to cry, but she instead released him and stepped back.

"Take care, Draco. I love you. And remember to live."

On her last word, Draco disappeared from her vision and her life, and she sank to her knees and cried. Deep throaty sobs poured out of her as she buried her face in her hands, her beautifully immaculate robes spreading out around her.

He was gone, and she was alone, and all Narcissa wanted was to end it all right then. But her job wasn't done yet; she had a few more things to do make sure he was safe, and she didn't have long to do it. So she stood, wiped her face, and looked around the room, outlining everything she had left to do in her head.

And when she was done, Narcissa surveyed the room, a cleaned fireplace roaring with a new fire, a carefully penned note to her sister, and a draught on the table were all new additions to the room. Other letters had been written and charmed to appear to the intended recipients at later times.

She picked up the draught and downed it as quickly as the glass and her mouth would allow. Only one final step to complete, and then she, too, could let go. As she raised her wand to her temple and spoke the charm, her last thought was, _Now we can both be free._


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

The mug sat on the table front of her, its steam rising in soft curls from the tea. But Hermione only saw through the vapours as she stared at an unknown point across the room. Soon the steam would dissipate, the tea would be cold, and she would still be sitting, staring, useless. Until she stood up, carefully measured out the correct amount of leaves, boiled the water, and made another pot.

She had always hoped she would have a productive life. In fact, Hermione had fully believed that she _would_ lead a productive life. After all, she was Hermione Granger. The productive one. The organized one. The brilliant one. Well she was. Or she had been.

Now, she was quite sure . . . of nothing. Oh, Hermione was still organized. She organized her cabinets every day. She was productive. She produced pot after pot of tea each day. And she had become quite brilliant at doing absolutely nothing.

Initially, when employment was to be obtained, when life was to begin anew, when fresh starts were to be found, Hermione had found work. And she tried to work; she tried so hard. But memories, horrors from years earlier, weeks earlier couldn't be erased, and Hermione could never focus on projects, deadlines weren't met, and she couldn't find it in herself to care.

In the past, work, no matter what type, had always been an outlet for her, but now, she couldn't complete even the simplest of tasks. It was depressing, her inability to concentrate and general feeling of helplessness. She kept telling herself she was just taking time off from working. After all, she had fought for years and years, never taking a break, always pouring her entire soul into planning, preparing . . . executing. She shuddered at the term and felt her chest tighten with sadness, her throat closing in revulsion.

Hermione blinked and twitched slightly as she was shaken out of her reverie. The phone was ringing. It was ten-thirty. Her entire day could be timed around this one phone call that came every morning without fail. Her mother was nothing if not persistent. She had once explained to Hermione that it was late enough that Hermione should be awake yet early enough to check and make sure she was awake. Hermione thought that the real reason was that her mother wanted to make sure she had made it through another day.

The receiver was trilling for the fourth time when Hermione finally stood, and by the sixth, she had put it to her ear.

"Hello, Mum."

"Oh! Hermione." Her mother sighed. "That always startles me. How did you know it was me?"

This time it was Hermione who sighed. "Because you're the only who calls me at this time." _Because you're the only one who ever calls me._

And it wasn't just a telephone issue. She rarely spoke with anyone, much less saw people. Harry did not take long to leave, his wounds burnt deeper than any Healer could see. Ron. Well, she saw Ron, but he didn't see her. And everyone else, everyone that Hermione had once considered her friend, was either afraid to approach her or busy tending to their own pains. Or they were dead. But it didn't much matter. She was shit company.

"Hermione." The word held so much in it. Sadness, a bit of disappointment, and helplessness. Hermione said nothing. She answered the phone for her mother; if she didn't, her mother would come over. And then would begin the painful process of attempting to extricate Anne Granger from her house. But there was no rule regarding conversation participation.

"Fine. I assume, because you answered your phone, you are at least out of bed. Have you eaten breakfast?"

Hermione gave a half-smile as she leaned her head onto her shoulder, trapping the phone. Her mother was getting smarter with her questions. Hermione reached toward the counter and grabbed a banana out of the basket. Her nose crinkled at the brown spots, but as if her mother were standing right in front of her, she began peeling it.

"I'm eating a banana, right now." She paused to take a bite. "And I made tea."

"I'm sure you did. You make tea all day. The real question is whether any of it actually passes through your lips."

Hermione glanced around the kitchen. Every available space was filled with teapots: ornate, plain, colored, pattered, single serving, short and stout, tall and willowy. She had exactly forty-seven. A simple daily task that had turned into an obsession. She always had to have tea available, almost as if she was hoping to suck the warmth into her cold body by diffusion—she hated being cold—even though she drank absolutely none of it.

There was little point in her responding, and her silence said everything her mother needed to know.

"How are you feeling today?"

A short bark of a laugh escaped Hermione's lips. "Wonderful. Just like yesterday."

She listened to her mother breathe through her nose, drawing several breaths in. She seemed to be steeling herself for something.

"Love, I've made you an appointment to see someone. It's—"

"Mum, no. I've told you. Talking about it won't help."

"Hermione Jean! How many times I have told you not to interrupt? It's rude," Anne Granger said with a bite to her voice as she scolded her daughter like Hermione was eight years old again.

"I'm sorry Mum, but I just don't want to go to see anyone."

"I know you don't, dear. You've made that perfectly clear. But I'm hoping you'll be more amenable once you hear me out."

Hermione threw the banana down on the table, the overripe fruit making her nauseous with its starchy texture coating the inside of her mouth.

"I'll take your silence as acquiescence to continue." Hermione raised a brow at the tone but said nothing. "Molly and I have been speaking. She told me she's been spending a good deal of time at one of the orphanages, in Devon. The children are under good care, but there are too many of them. Not enough adults. The orphanage is very reliant right now on volunteers."

A heartbeat of silence. Or one thousand. Finally Hermione spoke.

"And you think that I should volunteer. Me."

"Given your . . . experience," Hermione could almost feel her mother grimacing at the word, "I thought you could provide something to the children that others could not."

Hermione scoffed. Experience. Yes she had it, but who was to say that any of it was worth imparting? She had had no textbook, no teacher . . . she had been alone. Always deserted when it came to the children. It didn't matter if they were children of Death Eaters, Muggles, or innocent fighters. It didn't matter if they were alive or dead; Hermione would look around and everyone was gone. Somehow, the children were always hers.

"Have you seen me lately, Mum? What could I possibly provide those kids? I'm more broken than they are!"

"Because you're not even trying to move forward!"

Hermione sucked in a breath at her mother's sharp tone and felt tears sting her eyes. She felt immediate anger—why should she be berated for not knowing how to live a life after watching so many lose theirs? But before her anger could flame, it dissipated into sad agreement. Her mother was right. Hermione wasn't moving anywhere, but despite knowing it, she also knew she had nowhere to go.

In a much quieter, contrite voice, Anne continued. "Perhaps you are more broken, Hermione. But shouldn't they have a chance to heal, to move on? And maybe they need someone who has actually been through some of the experiences they have."

* * *

><p>Hermione stood outside of the gates of the building and thought once more about why she was here. More importantly, what her purpose would be. What could she offer? What comfort could she possibly provide? And yet, once the decision was made, once she had agreed to meet with the director, there was no turning back. Didn't mean she would ever return, but she would at least follow through with this.<p>

As she approached the gate, she noticed there was no opening—at least, not one she could see, and she looked around, confused, before spying an intercom-like box on one side. She walked to it and pressed the button, immediately hearing a woman's gentle voice.

"Devon Children's Home, how may I help you?"

"Um, yes. This is Hermione Granger. I have an appointment with . . . " Hermione glanced down at the paper in her hand, "With Matthew Dram."

"Oh, yes, Miss Granger, he's expecting you. Come right on up."

Hermione was about to ask how when an opening in the gate materialized before her. Interesting. She would have liked to have taken the time to study what kind of Disillusionment Charm was on it.

Shoving the paper into her pocket, she walked up long walkway, glancing around at the landscaping, not particularly pleased with the unkempt grass and lack of colour. There should be colour. She had stopped to look around, already planning in her mind where flowers should be planted, where a sandbox could be placed, where the children could grow a vegetable garden. She must have lingered for too long, let her mind drift, which was not surprising, for she was startled when she heard her name called.

"Miss Granger."

She turned to face the speaker…and felt her face drain of the little colour it had.

Draco Malfoy. Her mouth fell open, eyes agog, as she slowly turned her head to one side, and then to the other, as if looking for someone else, something else that would clue her in as to what was happening.

"What – in the f—"

"Language, Granger. There are little ears everywhere."

Who was this man who looked and sounded like Draco Malfoy?

"Perhaps we should take a stroll, to catch up." He smiled that same confident smile, as if she should be stumbling over her feet to keep up with him.

"I'm not going anywhere with you. Who are you?"

He crossed his arms over his chest, not defensively, but completely relaxed, and tilted his head considering her question.

"I think the better question is, 'who am I now?'"

"What," Hermione exclaimed, baffled, "does that have to do with anything?"

She watched as he uncrossed his arms and extended a hand toward her, the smile back on his face, and Hermione realized that although his face read assurance, it was missing the cruel arrogance she had once been used to seeing.

"Matthew Dram. Nice to meet you."

Hermione watched this as if it was an out of body experience. What was going on? Did her mother know about this? Did Molly? Being completely rude, but not even realizing it, she just stared at the slender white hand held out in front of her. Then she fixated on him. His hair was still that white blond but now cut short, in a crew cut, and his face had lost the sharp angles of youth. He had grown into a man. A man whom she had presumed dead or hiding in a hole. Apparently, he was hiding in an orphanage.

Finally, she waved away the hand and held up her own, palm facing out.

"Stop. Just stop. And explain. I thought I was here to meet with Matthew Dram about volunteering."

Draco dropped his hand, a look of annoyance passing briefly over his face, before morphing into an expression of cool regard.

"I don't believe that has changed. I am Matthew Dram. Normally, I don't meet all the volunteers, but seeing as how you and I are . . . intimately acquainted, I thought I should meet you myself and explain a few things."

Hermione didn't know what to question first: his new name or his status of being alive. She decided to not choose.

"Malfoy, whose identity have you stolen? And I thought you were dead."

"And yet, here I stand." He sighed and began walking, gesturing for her to follow, and she didn't have much choice, unless she wanted to guess at what he was saying.

"I left. I had no choice. Well, I had little choice. Or felt I did. So, I ran away. I moved to America and started a new life. A new name, a new wand, new ideas. And I waited. I didn't necessarily plan on coming back, but considering my experience, I felt I was uniquely able to contribute. And so, here I am." He paused and looked at her. "No identity stolen. And me very much alive."

Hermione stopped walking. That was the lamest excuse for an explanation she had ever heard. Talk about vague and cryptic. And she told him so.

"Is this supposed to prove something to me? That you're a good person who should be allowed to work with children? That story told me nothing, nothing I couldn't have guessed on my own."

Malfoy . . . Matthew . . . Draco . . . whatever-his-name-was whipped around to face her, his own face turning harsh with a bitter expression.

"What did you expect, Granger? That I would pour my life story out to you? That you, over others, are entitled to that information? I gave you what you needed to know, more than I give anyone else."

Hermione didn't even bother to respond to that, though she wanted to scream out, _yes! Yes I do need to know more._

"Aren't people surprised to see you here?"

At that, his expression changed again, this time to one of sorrow. "Only children ever come here. No one is adopting, hardly anyone volunteers—everyone's still too wrapped up in their own pain, I suppose."

"Of course they are. People need to time to grieve and adapt. The war was painful and hard—devastating. Not that you would know."

Hermione felt like she was being attacked and so, lashed out, a bitter tinge to her voice.

Malfoy just shrugged, shaking his head. "I never said that I did. I never said I expected people to come look for a child to replace one they had lost. It just is this way. It doesn't mean, however, that these kids don't need help grieving and adapting and that they don't also know the devastating effects of the war. After all, look at why they're here."

And just like that, Hermione felt small and ashamed. Her confusion at seeing Malfoy made her angry and strike out, and in doing so, she completely forgot the purpose of her visit.

"Does Molly know you are here?"

"Mrs Weasley?" He nodded, without waiting to see if she responded. "Yes. Once I realized her visit was not an isolated instance, I met with her. I never asked that she lie about me being here, but given how much we don't need people coming looking for the latest material for their gossip column, I did ask her to not mention it. Which is probably why she didn't tell you." At her pointed look, he continued with a smirk. "I can almost hear your brain working. Some things never change."

Hermione's brain was in fact, in overdrive. This was all too much to process. She felt blindsided and bewildered, completely confused as to what she should feel—or do. Should she storm away and confront Molly _and_ her mother? Should she ignore this Draco-Matthew person and proceed inside? Should she press him for more information? Did she care?

And that seemed to be the important question. Did it matter where he came from or why he came back? Documents and memories from both Professors Snape and Dumbledore had cleared the younger Malfoy of all guilt associated with Voldemort, though no one knew where Malfoy was. There were rumours that he had been killed by Voldemort, that he had attempted to side with the Order, only to be turned away, and even a few that he had killed himself. No one knew, but strangely, much time and effort was still spent on clearing his name in particular. Hermione had never learned the specifics, but apparently there had been bonds created that required that certain Ministry officials push the evidence through for both Snape and Malfoy. At the time, although odd, Hermione hadn't given it much thought. Now it made more sense. He had been alive.

In the end, Hermione had perused the evidence herself and found that however much Malfoy may have been an ass of a teenager and a mean-spirited bully, he was not a killer. And whatever he had done to her as a child, and as a teen, was in the past. She may have been a sad, broken young woman, but she had no room for hatred and anger, not anymore.

"So, well . . ." she said awkwardly, shoving her hands into her pockets, "what should I call you, then?"

He actually looked surprised. "Um. Well, the children call me Matthew, though the staff refuse to be so . . . informal." He rolled his eyes. "Honestly, I have nothing to hide. My name change is legal in America, so officially, I have two names. You can call me Draco if you like."

Hermione shifted her weight onto her left leg, leaning to the side, and raised an eyebrow.

"Not Malfoy?"

She thought she saw his jaw twitch slightly, or maybe a small squint of his eyes, or a tightening of his lips, or maybe . . . it was nothing.

"If you wish."

Well, there was no way she was calling him Dram—what an odd last name—and Matthew would just seem very strange, like he was someone she had never met. Though she supposed, in a way, he was.

"Well, Draco," she said, drawing his name out, rolling it around in her mouth, the sound of his name in her voice new to her, "What now? Should we get to why I am here?"

Truthfully, she still didn't want to go inside. This weird situation with Mal—Draco had been a welcome diversion from the panic she felt about seeing the children.

"Of course. Let us go in." He turned and gestured for her to lead, looking smooth as usual. Once a Malfoy, always a Malfoy.

He continued on as they walked. "You can meet some of the teachers and our resident Healer. We have a fairly small staff, three teachers and four afternoon-evening-night staff, plus Gretchen. Currently, I oversee it all, though I would prefer to have a director for the teachers and night staff. It takes away from me being able to see the kids."

At this comment, Hermione had to ask the question that had been niggling at her this entire time.

"What _exactly_ do you do?"

He chuckled. "It does seem strange at times, even to me. Working with children, that is. Anyway, regarding your question, I'm a Mind Healer."

Hermione stopped in her tracks, completely shocked, and exclaimed, "Really?"

"Really, really," Draco said, tossing a smirk over his shoulder and continuing on.

Hermione slowly trotted after him, gathering her wits enough to close her gaping mouth. _Really, really_? Seriously, who was this man, and why would he actually admit to being Draco Malfoy?

She followed him into the building and through an empty reception-type area, and to an office, apparently a business one, from all the paperwork. Stacks piled high on a chair, files precariously perched on a shelf—the man needed a secretary, or a filing system, of that there was no doubt.

He must have noticed her wide eyes taking in the surroundings, for he instantly began commenting on it.

"Ah, yes. Well, organization has never been a strong suit of mine. And quite frankly, there are more pressing matters than filing paper."

"How can you find anything?" Hermione couldn't help but ask, in complete bafflement.

"Ha! I have a nifty little spell I created. Basically a 'point me', but that spell was rather useless considering the amount of litter in this room. Watch."

And she did. Draco pulled his wand from his robes and simply said, "Find Alex," before turning 360 degrees around the room, drawing four straight lines to denote, Hermione assumed, the boundaries of the spell. She was about to ask more about the spell when suddenly, a small tinging noise appeared from the far side of the room. She looked toward the sound and then glanced at Draco.

"Go on," he said, with a quick flick of his hand and a grin on his face. The grin almost stopped her in her tracks, it was so foreign looking, but she forcibly looked away and moved toward the noise. It became marginally louder with each step she took toward the sound. She neared one pile of papers and noticed that one file was a bright red color, almost glowing. She removed several stacks of files that were loaded on top of it, and as she grabbed the red folder, she realized it _was _glowing. Hermione glanced at the file, and she read Alex on the cover. Then the tinging stopped, and the file was back to its normal off-white color. And then the file was snatched out of her hand. She looked sharply at the thief.

"Confidentiality, I'm afraid. I'm sure you understand. But, cool little bit of magic, right?"

Cool bit of magic? Yes, it was interesting, but it was a basic first year-type spell. And this man was a Mind Healer?

When she just stared at him, he shrugged and tossed the file on top of another pile, saying simply, "Well, the kids like it."

"How exactly did you get to be a Mind Healer?"

"In America. I studied under a well-known one, but to be fair, I currently combine a mixture of Muggle psychology along with magic in what I do. There are plenty of traumas in the mind that magic cannot fix."

Hermione knew that for a fact. If magic could have fixed her, she would already have found the spell and performed it on herself.

"You could always just erase their memories." She spoke more to herself than to him, but she received a response, and a flat out rebuttal at that.

"Wouldn't work. The person would still suffer from the emotional effects but be even more distraught not knowing _why_ they were feeling the way they were."

"But how—"

As she had done earlier to him, he held up his hand to stop her but was more effective by just simply cutting her off with his voice.

"We could talk about this all day, and I'd be happy to another time, but I think we should get you out to see the children. Not to mention the fact," pausing as he glanced at wrist that sported a very beat-up looking athletic watch, "that I'm about to be late to group."

He walked toward the door and stopped before opening it.

"Basically, Granger, the kids here need affection and interaction. Our staff does a pretty darn good job, but still, they can't give as much one-on-one attention as these children need. When Molly comes, she brings biscuits and hugs, and guess what they want? They fight to sit in her lap—at least, the little ones do." Draco stopped and eyed her, critically in her opinion, but then blinked and shoved his hands in the pockets of robes.

"I've heard you took care of the children during the war."

Hermione looked away, embarrassed and beginning to feel slightly sick. She didn't want to talk about it.

"I wasn't the only one."

"I'm sure that's true. But I have been told that that responsibility typically fell to you, at least within the group you were with at any given time."

She sucked in her lips, still staring out the window, and swallowed the lump in her throat, unsuccessfully. So, she just gave a brief nod.

Draco moved away from the door and into her line of vision, blocking her view of the window. He angled his head to the side to try and catch her eye.

"Hermione, I didn't seek you out. In fact, it was Molly who suggested it to me, and I'll admit to being greedy with possible help. But, I won't make you stay, and I'm not asking you to talk about the war, or your experiences, or why you look so lost. I just think you may be able to bring comfort to some of these children, some of whom I know you saved. And who knows? Maybe you'll get something out of it, too."

Then he straightened up, glancing at his watch again, and rushed to the door, calling out as he yanked it open.

"Gretchen? Gretch—there you are. Will you show Hermione around? I'm going into group with the Twos. I think the Ones are outside now . . . maybe that's a good place . . . or maybe Sam's class would be . . ."

He was talking as he walked and searched around in a desk. The woman Hermione could only assume was Gretchen pulled open another drawer and handed Draco a stack of parchment and a quill, continuing from where he trailed off.

"Healer Dram, I believe, after all these years, I can show someone around the home without you telling me where to go."

"Of course you can Gretchen, but Miss Granger—"

"Will be fine with me. I won't let any of the children eat her." Draco chuckled. "Now, go ahead and say your goodbyes, and get on with yourself."

Hermione couldn't help but give a little smile at their banter—or more specifically, Gretchen's banter.

Suddenly, Draco's hand was in front of her again, and he was saying, "It was good to see you, Hermione. If I don't see you before you leave, have a nice afternoon. And I hope we'll see you back here soon."

It all sounded very political, and she felt like she was being schmoozed. Yet, she took his hand this time and nodded slowly as he shook it firmly in goodbye. But then, unexpectedly, he tucked the parchment and quill under his arm and used his other hand to cover their clasped ones, doing something that felt so genuine, she just wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Take care of yourself."

And just as suddenly, he released her hand and jogged out of the room before "thank you" could even escape her lips.

The rest of the visit was a slight blur. Hermione never saw Draco again and was thankful for it. She wasn't sure if she could handle any more of the man that looked and sounded like—though only in miniscule and random ways actually reminded her of—the boy she had grown up with.

Gretchen walked her through the facility—or home as Gretchen called it—and she saw where the kids slept, ate, played, and learned. She met Sam, Jamie, and Emily, the three teachers, and found out some basic workings of the home.

She met some of the children, and most clamoured around her in eager excitement over a new adult to talk to, show off for. But there were a few who stood back, eying her warily, looking uncomfortable, sullen, uncertain, or a little of all. Unsurprisingly, they weren't shy about asking her name, where she lived, if she had any children of her own, and if she had brought biscuits. And they were able to wheedle her into agreeing to come back later in the week.

When Hermione left, she walked slowly toward the Apparition point, taking her time while her mind raced in partially completed circles, never able to fully form a thought before another would pop in. One thought would lead to another, until she couldn't remember where she had started or how she got to where she was.

But though she was ready to be in her home, her safe home, away from strange disconcerting men and children who had lost their innocence too early, it had felt nice to bask in the sun, to talk to someone other than her mother, to think of something other than her emotional state, to put on clean clothes, to have physical contact with another human. Hermione could still feel Draco's hand on hers.

Her body and mind were weary from a morning more taxing than the last three months put together, but as Hermione walked in her front door, she still out of habit went to her kitchen, the need to make her tea as vivid as ever. As she put the kettle to boil, she stopped and looked around her kitchen, turning slowly to take it all in, noticing the empty surfaces, devoid of pots, the crumbs of tea leaves, and the mugs full of cold liquid, it hit her with startling clarity: she had at last found something to do . . . something useful.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two  
><strong>

Hermione approached him slowly, not wanting to interrupt and, more importantly, startle him. His blonde head was bent over a piece of paper, furiously scribbling on it. As she reached him, she quietly sat down across from him, watching him work, and when he looked up at her, she gave him a smile and ruffled his hair affectionately.

He shot her an irritated look; his eyes squinted under furrowed brows. "Don't mess with my hair!"

Hermione struggled to hold in a smile at the clearly irritated look but pulled back her hands and held them up saying, "Ok, ok! I'm sorry."

"Wanna colour with me?" Evan picked through the crayons and held up a red one. "You can have red. The blue one is mine."

The three year old was smiling, and Hermione was once again amazed at the fluctuation in emotions: scowling to sparkling in a matter of seconds.

She accepted the crayon and pulled a piece of paper toward her, saying, "Well, lucky me. Red is one of my favorite colours."

The two scribbled together in silence for a few minutes. Hermione noticed that despite his quickness to give Hermione the red, there was a lot of crimson littering his paper.

"What are you drawing?"

"Mummy and Daddy."

Hermione nodded but kept coloring, wondering where this was going. Evan had never, to her, mentioned his mother and father.

"Where are they?"

"They're gone."

Hermione sighed inwardly, in sadness, before saying, "No Evan, on your paper. Where are they in your drawing?"

Without making eye contact, he jabbed a short chubby finger at one of the blotches of red. Though her heart hurt with many assumptions, Hermione said nothing in return; it was the rule she had here in The Garden, as the kids called it. No probing questions. She didn't much appreciate people digging into "why" she was the way she was, and she felt she needed to show the same respect to the children here in the home.

Hermione had been coming for three months, almost every day, without fail. After her first visit, the strange one with Draco, she had not planned on returning for four days, and yet she returned the very next morning. It had felt . . . right, and that was something she had not experienced in a long time. At first, she just sat and observed, feeling strangely out of place and yet comfortable at the same time. She let the children tell her about their new favourite toy or what game they wanted to play. But then she was asked to assist Sam with teaching a lesson, and then she offered to sub-in one day when Jamie was sick, and the next thing she knew, she was designing The Garden.

It had started with her weeding one day, while some of the kids were running around outside. Then, she added flowers in a small patch, but when Cali had asked for some daisies and Henry had demanded strawberries, Hermione had realized her small gardening project was about to erupt into something much larger. She had immediately sought out Gretchen but found Draco instead, and after cautiously posing her query to him, was given permission to do "whatever she wanted."

And so began The Garden. It was like her therapy time with the kids. She felt she needed it as much as they did. Initially, it was haphazard and messy, shrubs and flowers planted at the whim of the kids, but over time, order and purpose increased. Regardless, it could have been a chaotic mess, and yet it was making a difference. She could only assume it was therapeutic for the children, but she knew for sure it was for her. Instead of death, there was birth. Instead of watching things die, she helped create life.

"Is your Daddy with my mummy and daddy?"

Hermione was jerked back to the present by a small voice that asked a question painful to her heart. She looked at Evan, his cornflower-blue eyes squinting in confusion and curiosity. Her mouth opened to answer the question, but she had no answer. Or she had no right answer. What did you tell a three-year-old regarding where his dead Death Eater parents currently resided in the afterlife?

"Hermonee?"

"I—they—well . . ." She trailed off like a blathering idiot, her eyes searching The Garden for something to save or swallow her. She wanted to be consumed by her grief or rescued by angel. When no such miracle occurred, Hermione finally said, "Evan, I don't know if your parents are with my daddy."

She watched him and waited for more questions, possibly a "why?", but nothing ever came. He just stared at her and finally said simply, and quietly, "Ok."

Picking up the black colour, he looked down at his paper but paused before the crayon even touched the paper, making eye contact with someone over Hermione's shoulder.

"Hi, Evan. Hi, Hermione." Hermione turned in her seat to see Draco striding through the grass toward them. His robe, a light grey colour that matched his eyes, was opened, and he had his hands in the pockets.

Before Hermione could even respond, Evan had hopped out of his seat, jumping excitedly around Draco, his grin contagious.

"Matthew, Matthew. You're back! You came home! You're here! I'm colouring, and so is Hermonee."

Draco chuckled, clearly amused at the boy's enthusiasm. "Yes, yes I am. Though I haven't come back from anywhere."

Suddenly, Evan's happiness wilted slightly. "You left. You left last night. I saw you walk in the fire."

"Well, yes, you are correct." He nodded slowly. "I did leave last night to go home to sleep, but I came back. See? I'm here."

"I don't want you to go. You should stay here . . . with us."

Hermione watched with interest—and worry—at the two figures before her. She wondered how Draco would deal with Evan, who was quickly becoming distraught.

Draco squatted down to Evan's level, coming eye-to-eye with him. "Evan, I know that you want me to stay, but sometimes I have to go to my home, too. Don't I always come back and play with you and talk to you and colour with you and play—"

"Play dragons with me?"

"Sure . . . I play dragons with you. I have always come back."

Evan stared at his Healer for a few long seconds before his face crinkled up and he ducked his head, whispering, "I'm scared. I want you to stay with me."

At that, Draco reached out to the little boy, pulling him close, and Evan didn't resist. He let himself be held.

"Evan, I'm not going to lie to you. I cannot always be here. But you are safe here, and someone, like Sam or Gretchen, will always be here to watch over you, to take care of you, even if I can't be here all the time."

"But I want _you_ to stay here." Hermione barely heard the small voice that was pressed into Draco's chest and but clearly saw Draco's eyes close in pain, his face contracting in anguish.

"I cannot promise you that Evan. I can—"

Draco cut himself off when Evan jerked out of the older man's arms and screamed, "I want you! I don't want Sam or Wetchen." He ran off toward a corner of The Garden, creating chaos in his wake. He threw sand toys, dumped over tub of paints, kicked at the grass and flowers—nothing was safe from the three year-old's wrath.

This wasn't the first tantrum Hermione had witnessed, but it was the first she had seen from the normally calm, if not a little quiet, Evan. She just wanted to go grab him and hold him, but she had been here long enough to know that it didn't always work like that. The kids needed to be allowed to be angry and sometimes be allowed to vent, even if in a destructive way. Hermione shook her head, tears in her eyes, and looked over at Draco.

"Couldn't you have just told him—"

She stopped her question as she watched him shake his head vehemently.

"Yes, I could have. But it would have been a lie. If we lie, we only create more confusion, especially if, and when, they find it out."

"But you said he'd be safe. You can't guarantee that."

"True. But that is why I do whatever I can to create a solid network of people in his life who will protect him. I'm only one man. But knowing there are five, ten, twenty other witches and wizards who would keep him from harm is a much more acceptable lie than telling him I will always be here." He paused, a tangle of expressions threading across his face. "I know all too well what it is like to be promised a lie, especially regarding my safety."

Draco looked away from Evan and toward her, his eyes searching hers. "Evan needs to feel safe and secure. Otherwise, he cannot heal. And these kids here have a much harder time with this because there's nothing safe or secure about having no family, no material possessions, no connections." He sighed. "And it makes it all the more harder when a kid like Evan tries to create that connection with me to replace something he has lost."

He trailed off, and Hermione was once again struck at how odd this man in front of her was. And only odd because she was still having a difficult time reconciling the boy she had grown up with and the mature Mind Healer that worked in an orphanage.

In the past three months, she had only had a handful of interactions with him. She found out he was extremely busy, running group after group, individual sessions, and playing with the kids. She had even seen him teaching the older kids how to play baseball, which she could only assume he had learned when he was in America. And then, once, when she stayed through bedtime to fill in for a missing teacher, Hermione saw him hunkered over his desk, his quill speedily moving across the parchment.

But besides passing him in the halls or seeing him across the rooms, she had had few opportunities to talk to him. There was little room for conversation when the children were present: they demanded each adult's full attention. Not that Hermione was necessarily upset about that. She wasn't sure what to say to Draco or how to deal with him. Despite her lack of hostility toward him, and her acceptance of him being here, the more she saw him, the larger her pool of questions was regarding him.

Why did he become a Mind Healer, and what made him come back? Why did he really leave? What did he do in America? Did it change him or had he always been this way, just hiding? Why had he been so mean to her in school? Did he mean it? Did he really think she was beneath him? That was what she wanted most to know.

Did Draco Malfoy still believe himself superior to her and others like her? Had his beliefs changed or just his demeanor?

Yet, still, she asked none of these questions. She was afraid. Not of the answers but of the questions he may ask in return.

"Let's give him a few more minutes."

Draco, leaning forward with his hands flat on the table, was watching Evan, who had stopped kicking everything without regard and had instead moved to sitting on the ground, sniffling, and ripping grass up, piece by piece. He seemed unaware that Draco and Hermione were observing him.

This time she didn't keep her question to herself.

"Then what? What will you do?"

Without looking at her, he said simply, "We'll just keep going."

"Keep going? You don't need to address," she gestured the destruction in front of her, "this?"

Then, Draco did look at her. "Not specifically. I will make him clean it up and hopefully move him to something else."

"Aren't you just ignoring the problem?"

"No. What he needs is to be allowed to be frustrated. To be reassured that I am not angry at him. To continue on with his life. He needs to move forward. To keep going." He paused to glance back at Evan, who was now talking quietly to a small dragon figurine.

"He needs—each of these kids needs the opportunity to get back to a . . . normal life."

Hermione scoffed instinctively, and the word "normal" passed quietly under her breath.

"Yes, normal. As normal as it can be. If we don't allow for frustration, anger, sadness, grief, if we don't push for those . . . normal . . . feelings, then the feelings of happiness, excitement, joy will be muted and forced. These kids have the rest of their lives in front of them. They need to move on and not be trapped by this event in their lives, however awful it was."

Again, Hermione scoffed, sneered even. "Event. How very clinical of you."

"It was!" he burst out in an agitated voice. "It was an event of," he glanced over at Evan and lowered his voice, almost shouting a whisper, "of bloody epic proportions. For all of these children, for every witch and wizard, for Muggles. I may not have fought in the war, but my life was not just touched but branded by it. Even after I left. Grief and pain followed me across an ocean."

And it was then, as his face morphed into one of anger, a grimace replacing the typically easy-going façade, that Hermione saw a glimpse of the boy she remembered from her youth.

"Don't think you own the sole rights to sadness and loss." He turned away from her slightly, and she looked down at her feet in shock, feeling a bit ashamed.

Draco was clearly frustrated, and it was the most negative emotion she had seen from him since school. Recently, he always seemed so stable and sane, even happy at times. Possibly another reason she avoided him: it was hard to be around people who were well-adjusted, or at least appeared to be. They reminded her of what she could be and, at times, what she thought she wanted to be.

As terrible as it sounded, even to her, Hermione was glad to know he was affected. Not that she wished for people he loved to have died or for him to have taken the Dark Mark—the word branded seemed no mistake—but after all of the loss that surrounded her, it seemed wrong that he should come in and act like he knew how to fix these children. Shouldn't he have suffered as well in order to help?

At the same time, the logical Hermione chided herself for being unfair to Draco for after all, Hermione did not know his childhood experiences. Had they been filled with happiness, or were they cold? And as a teenager, as hateful as he had been to her—and her friends—when it came to taking the Dark Mark, had Draco had any choice, with his father being who he was? There was so much she did not know of him.

"I think he's been alone long enough." His voice was quiet and little hard around the edges, giving the impression he was still affected by his last comments. He started to walk around the table to go toward Evan, but she reached out to him.

"Draco," she said, brushing the sleeve of his robe with her fingertips. The cotton was soft, like it had been washed many times. She had the urge to touch it again but withdrew her hand.

Draco turned to her, watching her hand, before looking up at her face, a question on his own.

"I'm sorry. It was wrong of me to think that you have been unscathed by the war. I'm struggling myself, and sometimes I think I am alone, when obviously that is not the case. Regardless, I have wanted to say that I do think you are doing good things here with these kids."

The last part sounded silly, like she was trying to compliment him to get back into his good graces. But the statement was true. She did admire his skill and dedication, even if she was confused as to who he was.

He gave her a sad smile, dropping his head down before lifting it back up, his eyes boring into hers.

"Thank you." He leaned forward slightly. "Hermione, remember: you are not alone, though I know it feels like it."

The next week was one of the most difficult weeks for Hermione in terms of her emotions. Since coming to the Devon home, Hermione had felt that she was finally starting to mend her psychological wounds. Hearing Ron's name did not immediately cause her eyes to erupt with tears. Thinking of Harry did not cause her to go make another pot of tea, when there was already one on the table, in order to give productive motion to her shaking hands. She had even gone and visited the Burrow and had had brunch with her mother one Sunday.

Life was beginning to be renewed. Or so she had thought.

Hermione had followed Draco toward Evan that sunny morning in the Garden. Draco had knelt down in the grass before sitting down next to him. Hermione had followed suit, though she sat a little ways away, not exactly sure if she should even be there. But she was genuinely curious about what Draco would do, of what he could say to soothe the small boy. She had watched as Evan hesitantly cast his eyes up at Draco and looked at the older blonde man as he began talking.

"Are you still mad, Evan?" Draco had asked, leaning down to see into Evan's face. Evan had shaken his head in denial. "It's ok to be mad or to be scared. I want you to tell me, or Gretchen, or Sam, or Hermione," he said, gesturing toward Hermione, "If you are.

"We all get upset sometimes, and there's nothing wrong with that. But you can't always have what you want. Me staying here with you, all the time, is not something I can give you."

"But I get scared—of the monsters."

"I know. And that's why I do everything I can to keep you safe." Draco's hands had grabbed Evan's upper arms and were holding them gently. "I promise."

"Are you mad at me? 'Cause I made a mess?" Evan had looked like he was about to burst into tears again.

"Of course I'm not mad at you. I still care about you, Evan." Evan's head had dropped down, his chin resting on his chest. Draco had gently raised Evan's chin up. "Do you understand? That I'm not mad?"

Evan had looked at Draco, his blue eyes still wide and bright with tears, and nodded once before he had flown into Draco's lap, throwing his arms around Draco's lap and sobbing into his shoulder.

Hermione was sure her eyes had been equally as wide as Evan's upon witnessing this, and she had felt her heart straining with the pressure of too many emotions. She had felt her throat constrict, tears threatening, and she had started to stand, to escape. But Evan had seen her movement and had reached a little arm out toward her, fingers outstretched.

"You want hug too, Hermonee?"

Hermione had only paused for the briefest of moments before dropping back to her knees and become engulfed in an embrace that both gave and received; tears had been falling freely now, from more than one set of eyes, and the feeling of emptiness had momentarily disappeared.

Of course, the emptiness had returned but not as deep or as all-consuming as before. And with it came all sorts of other uncomfortable emotions. Sadness, joy, fear, comfort, anxiety, closeness. All things she had blocked out for a long time.

Hermione had almost not gone back to the home, afraid that she would have some sort of breakdown upon seeing Evan—or Draco. But the guilt had gotten to her. She didn't know _why_ the kids enjoyed her company, but if they did, she wasn't going to deprive them of it.

Upon her arrival, that first time back after Evan's tantrum, she had thought about avoiding Draco like the dragonpox, but it had appeared unnecessary initially. He was around, like he always was, but never sought her out nor mentioned the . . . episode. Of which she was eternally grateful.

So, she was quite literally surprised one afternoon when she was working on setting up wards to protect the Garden from the elements—she didn't want anyone to not be able to enjoy it regardless of the dismal rainy weather they had been having.

When he called her name, Hermione had been deep in thought, pondering the various spells she had tried, completely soaked from the heavy rain, running like a waterfall off the tip of her nose. She jumped, quite likely a foot off the ground, and whirled around, her wand out in front of her. She immediately lowered it but almost swore in nervousness.

"Da—Blast it, Draco! You scared me!"

He was standing, his customary light grey robe on, holding an umbrella, the rain running in rivets off the canopy's ribs. She could only assume it was to keep the water out of his face because it was clear that Draco had on an Impervius charm, based on the water droplets that were bouncing off his pants and the hem of his robe, just as easily as they did off the umbrella. He looked immaculate as ever, with creased trousers, shined shoes, robes perfectly arranged; he looked like the Draco Malfoy she remembered from school.

He shook his head incredulously, almost shouting at her as he spoke. "Have you lost your mind, woman? What are you doing out here? It's pouring, and you don't even have a charm on you!"

Draco pulled out his wand but stopped with his wand in mid-air when Hermione yelled, "No!" her arms waving frantically.

"What?"

"I'm working on wards for The Garden, and I need to know if they're working."

"What?"

"If I constantly repel water, how will I know if the barrier I created is actually keeping water out?"

Draco dropped his wand and stared at her, dumbfounded.

"What?" It was her turn to ask the inane question, annoyed, and confused, by his clear lack of understanding.

"Hermione. You are one of the—no, the smartest person I know. But that was the dumbest thing I think you have ever said—well, one of them. You actually think this is the best way to test whether your wards are working? Getting soaked to the bone?"

"Fine, then. What would you suggest?" Hermione pouted, her arms crossed over her chest in irritation.

"Uh, how about look around to other items within the ward and see if they are wet? Conjure a bucket in the middle of the ward and see if it fills up with water?"

He continued to look at her as if he didn't know who she was, and Hermione quickly felt rather stupid for what she had thought was a good idea. It was at that moment that she realized how dreadful she must surely have looked, with hair plastered to her head and clothes slimed to her skin.

"Well, I suppose that would have worked, too. But my way is a lot less work than constantly checking a bucket or cleaning off toys inside The Garden, when I could just feel the rain on my skin."

It was weak, but Hermione was still Hermione. She didn't like losing . . . at anything.

Draco shook his head and said sarcastically, "Can you still feel it?"

In an instant, Hermione had reversed the Impervius charm and Accioed his umbrella and watched as Draco immediately became almost as drenched as she.

"Can you?" she shot back, smugly, holding the umbrella over her head.

Once again, the look of disbelief covered his face, as the rain darkened his hair and robe, before he snickered suddenly, one side of his mouth tilted upward.

Hermione couldn't help but imitate the noise, and soon, she found herself laughing. She snorted as she tried to hold it in, which made her laugh harder, and finally she was holding her sides, doubled over, the umbrella discarded, tears mixed with the rain trailing down her face. She glanced over at her companion and saw him chuckling at her obvious silliness. Clearly, he didn't find it as funny, whatever it was, but Hermione didn't care. It felt good to laugh about nothing important. It felt good to pull a prank, even a weak one. It felt good to stand in the rain as a choice, not because magic was not allowed. It felt good to be with another person that wasn't constantly trying to fix her. She was happy.

And that realization sobered her, not in a bad way, but enough to make her stop laughing. Hermione closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky, taking a deep breath. She wanted to remember this moment. She would remember this moment. She would soak it up—the first time she had felt truly content in months, maybe years.

Hermione knew it wouldn't last, but she was ok with that. Because she knew it was there, and she was closer to it than she had been ten minutes ago. And that was a start.

"Hermione?"

She opened her eyes and lowered her head to see Draco looking at her curiously. "Everything alright?"

"Yes. Yes, right now, everything is."


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Hermione cradled the phone between her shoulder and cheek as she wandered through her small house, searching for a missing shoe, which given the current conversation, was unnecessary.

"Mum, it's fine. I understand. You're not feeling well."

Hermione continued to cast distracted glances around the room, and her eyes spying a pile she had not looked through. She headed in that direction as she cut her mother off again.

"Mum. Honestly. I'll be fine. I am fine." She huffed in annoyance as the pile produced a shirt she had not seen in months and a book she didn't even know she owned—but no shoe.

Growling at the mess around her, she said simply, "It will give me a chance to clean a bit."

Hermione untucked the phone from its spot on her shoulder and held it with one hand, using the other hand to gesture for no one's benefit but her own.

"I know, I know. Sundays are a day of rest," she rolled her eyes as she said it, thinking to herself, _in what world_, "but it will be relaxing for me to purge a little."

Her eyes narrowed and turned to the kitchen, anticipating her mother's next comment. "And no, my teapots are not going into the rubbish bin."

Then, she chuckled, "Yes you were, Mum. I know you."

Suddenly, Hermione stopped dead in her tracks at what her mother was saying.

"Ummm," she said uncomfortably, "He's fine, I guess." She could feel her shoulders scrunching up in discomfort at the topic.

She sighed into the phone. "Mum, I don't know. I don't see him that often—"

"What I mean is that we don't speak very often, and when we do, it's not in-depth. Mum, he's busy with groups, I'm busy with the kids . . . we don't have time to chat about . . ." she paused, thinking, "what book we're reading . . . which before you ask, no, I don't know what, or if, he reads."

Eyes growing wide, Hermione exclaimed, "Mum!

"'I can't see you being with someone who doesn't read'?" she repeated back at her mother, completely dumbfounded.

"You know what, this conversation is over. I'm going to hang up and pretend that you are just delusional and . . . medicated, due to your . . . illness. So, call me tomorrow and let me know how you're doing."

She pressed the end button her phone and threw it on a chair, sinking into another one, and letting her head fall back, so she was staring up at the ceiling. What was her mother thinking? Of late, meaning the past month or so, Anne Granger had been _eager_ to speak of Draco. Talking about Draco, in general, didn't bother Hermione. He was . . . She searched for the word. Inoffensive. Which was strange, considering for so many years he had been very offensive in so many ways. Now, he was just an attractive man whom she happened to see somewhat frequently but had no relationship with. She still knew next to nothing about him, from the deeply personal, like why did he leave or come back, to the somewhat superfluous, like why was his hair short?

Hermione could admit she was curious, even intrigued, by the young Mind Healer but never dwelled on her ponderings for long. She used her time to focus on mending the breaks in her own soul and growing beyond her walls. And just as Hermione knew that Draco roused her interest, she knew that they were too different to be friends, much less anything else, despite her mother's insinuations.

She and Draco were the perfect examples of clichés of opposites. Black and white, oil and vinegar, the sun and the moon, Slytherin and Gryffindor. Except that she really didn't think so anymore. He wasn't her polar opposite, but she didn't know what he was, she didn't know where he fit, and therein lay the problem.

So, for now, Hermione took all those piqued interests, those questions she occasionally longed to ask and tucked them away, near the place she hid her other fears and pains, until she was ready to look them in the eye.

Feeling completely disjointed after her conversation with her mother, Hermione knew she needed to do something, to busy her hands and mind. And with a pot of tea already made—she had used the pale pink one with the doilied lid—what else was there to do? She lifted her head up off the back of chair and rolled her shoulders as she looked around the disaster that was her home. Hermione had bought it right after the war ended, another one of those "fresh start" ideas. No one told her that new clothes, a new house, and a new job were not the answer to being completely lost. But she had tried.

Initially, she hadn't had time to keep up with it. Ron had lived with her, and Harry spent half his time here, but even between the three of them, there was so much housework to be done throughout the wizarding world that actual personal domiciles didn't stand a chance. At the end of the day, Hermione had been too exhausted, emotionally and physically, to even consider trying to organize, decorate, or even pick up her new home.

Then, the mess, the ugly mess with Ron happened, and it wasn't the time or the fatigue that stopped her. It had been a complete lack of caring. What was the purpose? But now, as she glanced around her living room, Hermione realized it had been more than just that. She had not wanted to change anything. Harry might come back and want to watch the telly. Ron might get better and want to drape his legs over the side of that horrid orange chair.

It hit her hard, like a punch to the gut. She had not wanted to grow, to move on out of guilt, out of fear that she would forget or they would come back and accuse her of not waiting. Draco's words came back to her.

"_They need to move on and not be trapped by this event in their lives, however awful it was."_

That was Hermione. Trapped, forced into the cage, but unwilling to leave it, even when the door was wide open.

Well, not anymore. She was going to move on. Ron was gone, his wounds were not going to heal. Harry was gone, and she wasn't going to put her life on hold in order to wait for him to come back.

Hermione stood up and walked to the table where her wand sat, conjuring several cardboard boxes for use until she could find something more permanent.

And she started going through the room, with purpose but without order, and began tossing items into the different boxes.

Old Chudley Cannon magazines—the bin.

Paperback novels of Harry's—donate.

A Weasley sweater—for Molly.

Old wireless that Ron had lugged around for months—donate.

Trash. Donate. Set aside. Trash. Donate. Donate. Trash. Donate.

Hermione had the desire to throw everything out, no holds barred, but knew there were people that could actually use some of these things. She surveyed the living room and realized with satisfaction that she was down to a sofa, her bookcase and books, and Ron's chess set, which she just couldn't give up. She ran her fingertips lovingly over the dusty tops of the pieces, tears springing unbidden to her eyes. She snatched her hand away, and as she began wiping them on her skirt, she realized her current outfit was fine for brunch with her mother but wasn't the most appropriate for an ousting of this sort.

So, deciding to change and finish what she had started, Hermione began plaiting her hair as she walked toward her bedroom. She was finishing off the end when she heard a knock at her door. Puzzled, as few people—meaning her mother and Molly—visited her, she turned back around and walked to her front door, leaving her hair to unravel.

Pulling open the door, she was surprised—no, shocked—to see Draco on her front porch. An agitated Draco, based on the fact that she couldn't even get his name out before he spoke.

"Oh! Dra—"

"Hermione. Good you're here." Then he actually looked at her, and said as he peered over her shoulder, "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, not really," Hermione replied, completely confused, also glancing over her shoulder. "Why?"

"Well, you . . . you look nice."

"Wow. With compliments like that, I'm sure the witches are tripping to get in line," Hermione deadpanned.

She opened the door wider and moved aside in order for him to enter; it was too cold to stand outside, no matter how much he may deserve it. Looks nice, indeed.

As he walked past her, he said, "You look nice all the time, just not this nice."

"Draco, I would suggest just stopping while your head is still above ground level in the hole you've dug." She shut the door and turned around, with a questioning look on her face. "Not to be rude, but why are you here?"

She felt herself becoming anxious—agitated people showing up on your doorstep didn't usually bring good news. And knowing that he didn't know any of her family or friends even, Hermione's mind quickly raced to the children at the home.

Standing in her now much emptier living room, Draco ran a hand back and forth over his hair in a distracted manner. "It's Evan. He's been hurt."

"No . . . " Hermione's hands started shaking, and she felt an urge to run to the kitchen and start a pot of tea. Instead she grabbed the back of a chair to hold herself up, to steady herself. She thought she might throw up, and she swallowed at the tightness in her throat.

"Hermione." She felt Draco touch her arm, and she looked up at him, surprised to see worry on his face. "He's ok. It's not bad."

"He's ok." Hermione repeated the simple statement, not really knowing what it meant. Evidently that showed, for he grabbed her upper arm, shaking her a little.

"Yes, he's ok. It's just a broken arm, which is being mended as we speak."

"Broken arm?"

"Uh huh."

It was as if she had been holding her breath the entire conversation, for suddenly it rushed out of her, and her shoulders sagged in relief.

"Why don't you sit down? You look . . . unwell."

She shook her head but sank into the chair anyway. "No, I'm ok. Just . . . " She trailed off, not knowing how to express her irrational fears, and continued on a different thread.

"Why are you here?" Hermione tilted her head quizzically and asked, "_How_ are you here?"

Draco shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat and leaned on one leg. "Evan asked for you. And I walked."

"You walked all the way here?"

"Well, no. I Apparated as far as I knew and then walked the rest. I tried to Floo Call you, but your Floo's not set up."

With a sheepish expression, Hermione drew her shoulders up in guilt. "Sorry. I disconnected it after . . . awhile after I moved in, and I've never had it connected back into the network."

"That's fine. I was just worried I would get all the way over here, and you wouldn't even be home. And besides the fact that it's bloody cold out, Evan was quite adamant that he had to see you. That boy can be quite persistent."

Hermione straightened up. "Oh, well, I guess we should go." She looked over her shoulder. "Let me grab a coat, and we can walk to the Apparition point."

Leaving Draco in her living room, she ran into her bedroom and slipped on her heavy wool coat and a hat and then joined Draco who was staring at Ron's chess set. She was buttoning the coat up and looking around for her boots when he said,

"Nice board. Looks like a Winechet."

"It may be. It's Ron's. It was his grandfather's, I believe. They're very partial to Ron." Hermione paused, looking at the board. "I don't know who they will listen to now."

She sat down in the chair and pulled her boots toward her, slipping her feet in and zipping them up.

Standing she said, "Ok, I'm ready" and walked out the door, waiting only seconds for him to follow her out.

She locked up her house, and they walked toward the Apparition point, Draco's long strides making Hermione keep a quick pace, even though it was Hermione who was leading.

"So, where are you moving to?"

Hermione's head whipped around. "Pardon?"

"All the boxes? I just assumed . . . "

"Oh. No, I – I was just cleaning out." They walked in silence for a few minutes, and then Hermione said, suddenly, "Actually, it was something you said that made me start."

"Really?" Draco seemed genuinely surprised, as if he couldn't see her being moved by anything he said.

"Really, really." She smirked to herself but did catch Draco give her a glance before he continued.

"Do I get to know the wisdom that I imparted that would move a witch such as yourself into action?"

Hermione's face going back to serious, she said, "You said once, about Evan, that he needed to not be trapped by the bad things that had happened, and he needed to move forward."

Sounding completely earnest, he said, "And cleaning will help you do that?"

"Perhaps 'purging' would be a better word. But yes, it is time for me to let go of things that aren't coming back."

As they stopped at the Apparition Point, Hermione said uncomfortably, only glancing up to meet his eyes, "So, thank you for that."

"Well, as much as I would like to take credit for assisting in your healing process, I'm afraid you will have to extend your thanks to the afterlife."

At Hermione's questioning look, he said simply, "That's something my mother told me before I . . . left for America."

Hermione peered, even more curious about Draco Malfoy. But he turned on his heel and was gone, and Hermione quickly followed suit.

A worried Draco was waiting for her when she popped into view near the home.

"I wasn't sure you knew where to go."

"I made an educated guess."

"That sounds like Hermione Granger." He chuckled. "Berta took care of the mending without a problem, but it was his first real injury, so, naturally, he was upset about it."

Hermione nodded silently as they walked toward the home. She thought of the other children whom she had found, orphaned or about to be, who were hurt or had been. Evan had been lucky . . . as lucky as a child whose parents defended themselves instead of their own child. Evan was the only child at the home who Hermione had had a connection with during the war—or at least, he was the only one she remembered. She thought perhaps he was drawn to her because of that, but he had just been a baby, a mere 15 months old, though at the time she didn't know that.

She had hated raids into homes that were occupied because one never knew what to expect. And this particular fight she would never forget. A baby had toddled across the floor, clumsy and awkward, arms outstretched toward his parents, completely oblivious to the hexes and curses flying around him. And Hermione had watched in horrific amazement as his parents had carelessly thrown curses around their own child. It was as if they hadn't seen him when in the end, it seemed that they just hadn't cared. It had taken Hermione a few extra seconds to respond due to her shock, and as if Evan had been touched by an angel, he remained miraculously untouched.

Hermione still had nightmares about that night.

At the gate, Draco waved his wand to create the opening and stood back, allowing Hermione to enter in first. Suddenly, as the two proceeded up the walk, Draco said,

"Hermione, are you sure you are ok?"

"Yeah. Just thinking about how lucky, and unlucky, he is."

Draco nodded and said nothing else, following Hermione into the home and to the room Evan shared with three other children.

Hermione stopped at the doorway, taking a moment to collect herself, only to walk in the doorway and see him, all pale and bandaged, and lose that calm she had gathered. She heard her name, in his young voice and rushed over to him, perching on the edge of the bed and being careful of his arm as she pulled him into her arms. And then she cried, without knowing why. He was just a boy, a boy whose parents attacked her, a boy with no connection to her, but it was as if her heart stopped on hearing he was hurt and then restarted at a painful pace when she actually saw he was hurt. Maybe Evan needed to be held or realized she needed to hold him, for he didn't fidget in her arms for at least two minutes.

"My arm got a hurt on it," Evan said, wriggling out of her arms.

"I know. Dra-Matthew told me."

Evan tilted his head to the side and asked simply, "Why do you call Matthew a different name?"

Hermione glanced up at Draco, who had come to stand on the other side of the bed, and he nodded at her as if to tell her to figure it out on her own.

"Well, Matthew and I went to school together, when we were younger. And I called him something different than Matthew when he was at school."

"But he's Matthew."

"You're right. He is Matthew, but he's still Draco, too."

Evan sat up straight and appeared to ponder that statement.

Finally he said, "Well, you should call him Matthew. He likes that name."

Draco chuckled and spoke up. "She doesn't have to, E. You know how sometimes we call Caliopa 'Cali'?"

Evan nodded, but a frown creased his face. "Cali's a girl, and you're a man."

Draco smiled, "Yes, she is, but she has two names too, like me. Cali is her nickname."

"What's a nickname?"

Hermione spoke up. "It's just another name we call someone. Like when Matthew calls you 'E'?" she paused, "Or when my daddy used to call me Janie."

"Evan is my name. I don't have a nickname."

Hermione looked over at Draco, wondering how they were going to resolve this issue.

"If you want a nickname, that's ok. But you and Matthew are still the same, right?"

"A name doesn't change who you are, Evan. It's just a name," Hermione said gently, patting Evan's hand. She smiled at him and looked over his head at Draco, extending her smile to him. But Draco wasn't smiling. He appeared troubled, his forehead crinkled in obvious concern.

Just then Berta walked in with a pain potion for Evan and promptly informed Draco and Hermione that they needed to let the little boy rest. Hermione had a strange feeling that she was back at Hogwarts being ushered out of the hospital wing by Madam Pomfrey.

"I'm staying until he falls asleep." Hermione wasn't sure what prompted her to say that, but it may have been the little hand that was tightly clasping hers. However, her comment led her to be on the receiving end of a heated glare from Berta.

"It should be fine, shouldn't it, Berta?" Draco said, still distracted. He was moving toward the door as he spoke. "Evan did specifically ask for Hermione, and I will be leaving to check on a few things, so there'll be one less person here."

Apparently, one didn't argue with the director, for Berta just glared her approval while Draco ruffled Evan's hair and walked out without a word to Hermione, leaving her confused and worried.

After a glass of water, an extra hug, and half a story about a boy, a girl, and a baby dragon, Evan was sleeping soundly. Hermione lingered next to his bed for a few minutes, not wanting to leave but knowing she had no place here, really. She was just a volunteer, not a parent.

So with a sigh and a torn heart, she left the room and walked through the halls, pausing when she got to the front office, glancing in, looking for Draco. When she didn't see him, Hermione continued on out through the front doors and directly past the exit to The Garden.

When the warm, muggy air engulfed Hermione, she knew she had passed through the wards of The Garden. She smiled, thinking how much she loved magic and how much she loved magic that allowed her to create happiness. She unbuttoned her coat and peeled it off, carrying it with her toward one of the rockers underneath the only tree in the garden, an aspen. Interestingly, that tree had been Draco's only request regarding The Garden.

So, Hermione shouldn't have been surprised to find him there, sitting under the tree, back propped up against the grey bark, legs outstretched in front of him. He was staring at his wand, holding it loosely in his palms. She stood quietly observing him, wondering if she should leave him in peace, but curiosity won out.

She took a few more steps forward, the soft grass muffling her footsteps.

"Didn't your mother teach you that it's rude to stare?"

Apparently, not soft enough. Either that or Draco had developed super human hearing in America.

"Must have been too busy teaching me how to look 'nice'."

She was moving forward as she talked, and she heard him bark out a laugh.

"Women," she heard him say under his breath.

Deciding to ignore that, she draped her coat on the back of the chair and sank into the chair. Beginning to rock, she leaned her head back and stared up into the tree. She wondered why he wanted this tree. It wasn't overly large or wide, but it was unique in its ability to live underground for years after the death of its parent. Also, she had to be particular where she planted it because she knew a grove would begin to form almost immediately. Aspens flourished when they were a colony.

"So, Evan's asleep. Though he did get part of a story out of me, much to Berta's displeasure."

Draco remained silent, clearly caught up in something else, and Hermione left him to it. She was just trying to make small talk, though she had no idea why. She had not come out here to talk but to reflect and breathe away some of her worries.

"Do you really believe what you said to Evan?"

Hermione sat up and looked at him, racking her brain for what she had said to Evan, but Draco wouldn't look at her. He continued to just stare at his wand.

"Wha—"

"That a name doesn't change who you are. Do you think I am the same person, just with a different name?"

Oh. That something.

"Because I had hoped that you would see that I have changed. My new name did change me. I'm not the same person I once was." He looked up at her, his eyes haunted and confused. "Am I?"

Hermione opened her mouth, but nothing came out. This felt vaguely familiar, but this time she had an answer.

"Truthfully? To me, yes, you are the same person." He opened his mouth to object, but Hermione spoke before he could. "You are still particular and think that your way is the only right way, and you dress immaculately."

She looked down with a pointed look at his creased jeans. Who ironed jeans? You could take a Malfoy out of wizard robes, but you couldn't take the need to be pristine out of him.

"But you do all that without being . . . spiteful. And without knowing much about you, about what you went through, I think it's obvious that you've had the opportunity to become _you_ and not a carbon copy of your parents."

Draco crinkled his face at her wording, but she thought he got the point.

"But you know that when I said that to Evan, I wasn't talking specifically about you. I was just trying to get him to understand that it didn't matter what he or I called you—that his Matthew was the same person as my Draco."

"Do you know that my mother broke my wand in front of me?" He was looking back down at his wand that he was now holding in one hand.

Hermione eyes grew large. A wizard with a broken wand was almost a broken wizard. When Draco had said 'new wand', he wasn't kidding. She wasn't sure how to respond, so just kept quiet.

"She broke my wand, told me to open myself up to new ideas, sent me off to America, and then proceeded to kill herself, but not before she Obliviated all her memories of me, to protect me from the Dark Lord." He looked up at her again. "I sometimes can't sleep at night thinking that perhaps she gave it all up for nothing."

Hermione would have never thought he lost sleep over anything, except maybe the kids. He just seemed so . . . all-together. Then again, she would have never thought his mother would have destroyed his wand and shipped him off to another country. He had originally said he left, which Hermione assumed meant he ran away, not that he was sent away.

"Do you believe that?"

Without answering her question, he said, "When I came back to England, I intended to come and make my peace with you, Potter, and Weasley. But then the accident with Weasley happened and Potter left, and you . . . well, it's never seemed like the right time, so now—"

"Don't." Hermione cut him off, knowing exactly where this was going. And she didn't want it.

"Don't what?"

"Don't apologize. I don't want it. I've listened to empty apology after empty apology for years. I'm sorry I killed innocent people. We're sorry we sent Ron out into the field uninformed. We apologize for the conditions we left you in. We're sorry we weren't around to help you with those children."

She dropped her head into her hands, running her hands through her hair. "And the people who said them didn't really mean them. They wanted to look better or make themselves feel better."

Quietly, she continued, "When I first came here, I didn't have enough in me to hate you or even be angry. And I didn't need to." She looked up at him. "Your actions have spoken more truthfully than any apology ever could."

Draco stared at her a long time, and she didn't look away. She met his eyes, wanting him to know that there was nothing left to forgive. Finally he nodded and drew his legs up, draping his arms around them.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Can you?" He glanced over at her with a small smirk on his face, making her smile without thought. See, in some ways, he was the same person.

"Fine. May I ask you something?"

"You may, though I may not answer it."

"Fair enough. How did you do it? How did you change? How did you get beyond what you had seen and done and knew?"

"I just kept hearing Mother's voice telling me to move. She told me to get out of bed and breathe. She told me to talk to people. To look beyond what I saw." He tilted his head to the side. "And sometimes I ignored it, and sometimes I wallowed. But eventually, I listened. And eventually, I didn't need her to tell me."

Hermione hoped that one day she wouldn't have to remind herself to get out of bed, or get in the bed, or to eat.

Suddenly, Hermione felt the urge to go home. To finish what she had started, to make some tea. Some habits were going to take longer to break.

"I probably should head home," she said, standing up. Draco looked up at her in surprise and rose as well.

"I understand. Purging calls."

Hermione pulled on her coat and began buttoning them. "Something like that."

"Thank you for the . . . conversation."

She nodded, and despite wanting to go home, Hermione didn't really want to end whatever this was. Now that she had a taste of this new Draco, she wanted to know more.

"Would you like to come over for tea? It's kind of the only thing I'm really good at now."

Draco shook his head, saying, "Sometimes I wonder who I'm talking to. Take a good look around at what you've done. This is something more than 'good' and so you certainly aren't a one-talent person."

Hermione blushed, uncomfortable with the praise, but nodded. "I suppose."

"I wish I could accept your invitation; however, I have other plans for tea this afternoon." He paused briefly, glancing at the building over her shoulder. "Rain check for tomorrow?"

The Muggle idiom surprised her, and she longed to ask where he learned that but nodded her agreement.

Draco walked her to the gate, and she waved her goodbye as she walked through, starting toward the Apparition point.

Suddenly she stopped, and turning around, called out to Draco.

"Draco! Wait."

He turned around, surprise on his face, shoulders hunched over from the cold. He wasn't wearing a jacket.

"Do you read?"

"I think it's quite obvious that I am not illiterate."

"Sorry, I meant, what are you reading, right now?"

He looked at her strangely, and with only a slight bit of hesitation, said, "White Teeth. It's a book my family sent me. Why?"

She smiled, and said, "Just curious if you read."


	5. Chapter 4

A/N: This is the last part of my little story, a challenge from H&V. I thoroughly enjoyed writing it, and thank you to everyone who read it and a special thanks to those who wrote a review. :D

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

"Have you thought about what you're getting your friends for Christmas?"

Hermione was accompanying her mother, only somewhat grudgingly, during one of Anne's Christmas shopping trips. It always amazed Hermione how many people her mother had to buy for. She supposed that was why her mother had to start in November. How did she know that many people that she felt she needed to buy a gift for? Hermione may have looked like a mini-Anne, but she had the personality of her father—a few close friends was all Hermione needed in order to be happy.

"What friends, Mum?"

"Now Hermione. You are just being silly. You still have Harry, even if he is gallivanting around somewhere else—"

"He's not gallivanting, Mum. He's recovering. Like we all are. He just chose to leave to do so."

"Regardless, you are a witch, aren't you? Just tie the gift up to your owl, and he'll find Harry."

"She. Elta is a she."

"Are you just being purposely obstinate today?" Without waiting for Hermione to answer, Anne continued, "And of course, you need to get something for the Weasleys . . . and Ginny."

"They won't be expecting anything. I didn't send anything last year."

Anne put down the scarf she had been holding up and, with nary a glance at Hermione, said, "Yes, you did."

"No, I'm fairly sure I did not."

"And I'm fairly sure that you did. Since I purchased and sent them for you."

"You what?"

Anne stopped and turned to her daughter. "You told me to go ahead and 'do whatever' when I asked you. Now, I don't think you were listening, but I did ask. It would have been rude of you not purchase something for the people closest to you, no matter how sad or busy you were."

Hermione just watched her mother as if she was seeing a different person.

"There was nothing else I could do for you. You wouldn't let me help. But that. That I could do."

Anne had repeatedly asked Hermione to let her do something, anything. But what was a Muggle woman to do in the aftermath of a wizarding war? At least, that was what Hermione had thought at the time because she hadn't actually been thinking. And truth be told, she didn't want her mother to see the ugliness that her daughter had been a part of. Hermione had been ashamed in many ways of who she was and what she had done.

"Well, what did I get you?"

Anne chuckled. "Oh, nothing dear. You were alive, if not necessarily well. I'll just make you take me away for a holiday in a few years to make up for it." Her smile turned bittersweet as she brushed her hand down the side of Hermione's head, letting her fingertips gently pull into her daughter's hair. "The best gift you have given me is seeing you come back. I was so scared I would lose you."

Hermione gulped seeing the tears in her mother's eyes but didn't look away.

"I'm getting better, I think."

Anne patted her daughter's cheek and leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead.

Smiling away the tears, she said, "I know you are. It's those children, and that little Evan, isn't it?"

"Mostly."

"So, what are you going to get the children and the teachers?"

"I'm not sure."

But that wasn't exactly true. Hermione had been thinking about it. The children had been buzzing around the last week or so talking about Father Christmas, but Evan and Noel, the youngest in the home, remained strangely silent on the topic. When Hermione had asked them what they wanted Father Christmas to bring, Noel had simply said, "He's sick." She pushed a little harder with Evan, but he had repeated the sentiment, saying, "Father Christmas didn't come. He was sick."

Hermione, not willing to leave it alone, had asked Draco for permission to review their files, and after some verbal sparring, including Hermione saying she would just go to the Ministry to find what she needed, Draco had relented. She had found that both boys had been brought in around the same time and had been together during the Christmas holidays the year before.

She may not have been all together after the war, but Hermione had fought hard for the orphaned children. She had all but physically taken up residence in the Minister's office, so hard was her push for good living conditions, low adult to child ratios, and a loving environment for the children. Rescuing, holding, restraining, sending off children may have been her unofficial, unwanted, side occupation during the war, but it was hers. Children didn't weep for joy in her arms; they were usually screaming for a parent that was dead either by her hand or the enemy's or being carted off to prison. She had wanted the memories to at least end with something happy, something positive, and whether it was because she was Hermione or because she was persistent, she got everything she wanted—except the ability to bring back some of the dead—for the kids.

However, clearly it had not happened fast enough for Evan and Noel. They had been stuck in a small house, with twenty or so other kids, waiting for the bureaucrats to pick up their heels and finalize the paperwork. After talking to one of the two workers that had been there, Hermione discovered that the children had been told that Father Christmas was too sick to deliver them gifts.

"I don't know what I will get them, but I am thinking about decorating the home and The Garden. I want the season to be special for them—some of them haven't really ever had a Christmas." Hermione looked up at her mother. "Do you think . . . will you help me?"

"Of course, love." Then she looked down at her list. "But this means I have to get my shopping done early this year."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "When have you ever not been done early?"

"Now, what about Draco?" said Anne, completely ignoring her daughter's rhetorical question.

"What about him, Mum?"

"I was thinking about a jumper, maybe from that new line over at—"

"I'm not buying him a jumper. And neither are you."

"Why ever not?" Anne asked calmly. "It's a perfectly appropriate gift. Not too personal, but just personal enough. It is clothing, after all."

"You don't know him. You shouldn't be buying him anything. You don't buy something because you know of them through someone else!"

"Well, then, what about you? Clearly, clothing isn't appropriate." She looked at Hermione with interest. "Did you find out if he reads?"

"Yes, he reads. I think mainly files, but yes, he reads. And no, I don't know what I am going to get him, since it's obvious you're going to bother me until I get something for everyone I have ever met."

"Not ever met, dear. Just the people you currently associate with—and love."

Well, her mother was right. It would be her mother, Harry, the Weasleys, and everyone at the home, including Draco. Associates and loved ones. She just wasn't sure where the line began and ended between those two things.

* * *

><p>The holidays blew by in a gale of snow, rain, festivities, and tea. After she first asked him to tea, Draco never waited for another invitation. Though that hadn't been surprising, given his comment once he had seen her kitchen, where every nook and cranny crammed with teapots. She had waited for the inevitable smartass remark about them. But it never came. Instead he had simply said,<p>

"Well, I foresee quite a few tea times in our future; for I'm sure you can't have possibly broken all these pots in."

So, despite her thoughts about a frequent schedule of tea time appointments, the only thing consistent about his appearances was his inconsistency. He would just randomly accompany her home or even show up on her front porch out of the blue (she still had not had her Floo connected). He didn't seem bothered by the fact that she had not invited him, and though part of her wanted to be annoyed by his brazenness, she really wasn't. Hermione realized she enjoyed his company. To be fair, she may have enjoyed anyone's company, besides her mother's, had he or she offered it. She hadn't quite grasped how lonely she had been and that conversation, of any type, would be welcome. But his conversation was full of surprises, something to anticipate.

In December, while the sun made a rare appearance, Hermione had asked what he would do for the Christmas holiday. It was then that she learned that Draco's 'family' lived in Virginia, a state in America, where he lived for almost four years before coming back to England. And he would be traveling back there for a few days.

In January, to her disbelief, she learned that he despised Earl Grey tea. In attempting to extract what tea he did like, she actually found out that he preferred coffee. Draco had assured her he was immensely impressed with her abilities in tea-making but could only choke down half the cup of Earl Grey that day.

In February, she discovered that the only other person that she competed with for tea time was his aunt Andromeda, who had apparently been instrumental in bringing him back home to work in the orphanage. It surprised Hermione, greatly in fact, but given Andromeda's personal experience with orphans, and her advocacy for the subject, in some ways it was no surprise.

It was also the month, on one late Sunday afternoon, that Draco helped her make one of the most instrumental changes to her journey toward recovery.

"I don't really like this pot at all." Draco was staring, with palpable distaste, at the tea pot in front of him.

"You're the one who wanted to drink out of them all."

"True, but now I think I'm drinking out of a cat."

"Because you are. It's a teapot. Shaped like a cat."

"Like a cartoon cat. That smile is just disturbing." At that, he turned the pot around, so the smiling face of the orange cat faced her.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"So, is it cats that bother you or just smiling ones?"

Draco mock shuddered, saying, "Both. They always look like they're plotting something."

"You can't possibly be serious."

He shook his head. "Let's just never drink out of this one again." He glanced around the room. "So, this is lucky number thirteen. Thirty-four to go."

"Thirty-six."

Draco's head swung back around. "What? You told me you had forty-seven."

"I did, then. I bought two more." Hermione scrunched up her face in embarrassment and looked at him under lowered lashes. She hadn't meant to, but it was like a compulsion—no, it _was_ a compulsion. She was out shopping for Christmas presents and had seen it, dark green with white holly. And then when she was with her mother one Sunday, a squat red and orange polka-dotted one caught her eye in an antique shop. She just couldn't stop herself.

Draco was watching her, and Hermione wondered if he was trying to figure out what to say or what was wrong with her. Finally, he spoke.

"You know, the Portkey that sent me to America was an old paperback book. The Wild Palms by William Faulkner. It was the only thing I had of her—my mother—and of the life I left behind. I read it cover to cover, multiple times, and then, every time I was out, I would buy another book by him. I didn't even like his writing that much. But I kept reading and buying and reading some more because I thought it brought me closer to her."

Hermione felt like she knew where this was going, but regardless, she asked the next logical question.

"Do you still have all the books?"

"Some of them. And I still have that one, the old Portkey."

That surprised her. She assumed this was the standard "give away everything that you were clinging to it order to enter a new phase of life" argument.

"Oh."

"I kept what I liked, what I used, and I realized I didn't need a book to remember my mother."

Hermione picked up her cup and took a sip, the tea already starting to cool.

"I've thought about it—downsizing."

"You already have, right?" Draco said, crossing a leg over his knee. She noticed today that his trousers weren't creased. He had taken to randomly not having pressed trousers. She thought his attempt to be casual was quite fetching, and she smothered a smile at her thought.

"Yes, but that wasn't my stuff."

"So, this is harder—because they're yours?"

She knew he was in earnest, in no way mocking, but she couldn't help but be defensive about it.

"I know, I know! I don't get it. It doesn't make any sense; it drives me crazy how little sense it makes, but I _needed_ it."

"But that was the past. What about now?"

It hit her at the same moment. She had said "needed," not "need." But that wasn't right—she still needed this part of her life, even if it was crazy. Even if it was mildly dysfunctional. Even if . . . she wasn't nearly as obsessive as she used to be. It was just all too confusing.

"I don't know." Hermione fidgeted with her cup, tracing the curve of the handle down around the outside and then up on the inside, and again, and again. "I've thought about it—a lot. And I'll even plan to, but then, when it comes down to it, I just can't let them go."

She stood up quickly, almost upsetting her chair in her haste to move.

"Fuck, they're just bloody teapots. Why can't I get rid of them? Why is this so hard?" She threw her hands up in the air in frustration as she paced the kitchen.

"Sometimes I look at myself and wonder, who am I? What happened to the person I used to be? The Hermione Granger I knew wouldn't have this much trouble getting rid of china. Hell, she would have never gotten in this situation to begin with." She looked over at Draco with tears in her eyes. "Sometimes, I just want her back."

Draco remained stationary but leaned forward, dropping his elbows on his knees, and rested his chin on his clasped hands.

"A very bright witch once told me that in the end, we're often still the same person. I still see a know-it-all—you can't do anything without studying it, can you? I still see how hard you work when you put your mind to something. I still see your desire to please others. I think you're still you. You've just let some parts of you take over."

She dropped into the chair in front of him and implored him, with desperation, "Tell me how to fix it."

Draco shook his head and smiled sadly at her. "I can't. But you will have to be willing to let go, even of these material things." He paused and looked around the room. "Perhaps you should consider gifting them . . . to friends, family. Maybe you would have an easier time letting go."

The idea that a group of inanimate objects, whose sole function was to hold water and tea leaves, would bring this much conflict to Hermione was absolutely laughable. And she knew it, and it drove her crazy. It was like inside, she was two separate people: the old Hermione and the new one. Her older self fluctuated between howling with laughter and tisk-tisking the new one's behavior. Her new self just didn't know any other way to live and, for some bizarre reason, was stronger than her older self.

"But we still have thirty-six to go . . . "

"I'm sure you can keep five or so, and we can just repeat."

"What if I just get rid of one every time we have tea?"

"I would say you are just postponing the inevitable."

"I think I liked it better when you use to be wrong more often."

"Now, you must have me confused with some other person, for I'm never wrong."

She shook her head with a smile and then sat back in her chair, pulling her feet up onto the seat, wrapping her arms around her legs.

"Will you take the cat?"

He gave her an annoyed stare, one brow raised. "Are you determined that this be as painful for me as it is for you?" He let out a breath, saying, "Fine, I'll take it."

"But you have to promise to use it."

"Fine, I'll use it."

"And for tea."

Draco slashed his hand through the air. "No, I draw the line at using the bloody thing for tea. I can put it to perfectly good use in the garden. It will probably scare away the gnomes."

"Ok, I'll agree to that. But I bet the gnomes will like it."

He rolled his eyes at her.

"You can have another one, too. For tea. Which one?"

"Why don't you pick it? It will mean more that way."

She wanted to tell him she had picked one, and he begrudgingly took it, but refrained, knowing that she had very purposely offered it.

"Ok, I will." She rested her cheek on her knees and stared at him sideways. "Draco."

He pulled his eyes away from whatever he was looking at over her shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Will you still have tea with me? When there's no longer an excuse?" She felt silly for asking, but she needed to know. Maybe he had a 'saving people' thing now, like Harry did, and he was just doing this as some type of therapy.

His answer was simple as his grey eyes locked onto hers. "Hermione, it was never an excuse for me."

* * *

><p>Hermione stared at the condensation dripping down the side of the glass. She watched one drop slowly glide down the smooth surface, picking up other droplets as it went until it collapsed into a puddle surrounding the bottom of the glass. She picked up the glass and took a drink, grimacing a bit at the sweetness. Draco had introduced her to iced tea; she should have known how sweet it would be based on the number of spoonfuls of sugar he put in his tea.<p>

She had once asked if he if thought increasing the sugar in his tea would increase the sweetness in his personality. He had asked if it was working.

And thus, their banter went. At times serious, at times silly. Sometimes he pushed, sometimes she pushed back. But without knowing it, Draco had kept her moving, changing, thinking.

It had helped when she actually started working at the home part-time, not just volunteering. She was good at organizing and doing the menial paperwork that Draco appeared to loathe. And, as much as she believed Draco would be excellent at working the circuits to get money and support, he had no desire to put himself out for everyone to see. She had fought these fights before, whether for house-elves or for these very children. Hermione could never figure out whether she had offered or Draco had asked, but nevertheless, when she took over some of his responsibilities, she felt more content than she had in years.

Laughter filled the air, and she looked up to see the children racing around The Garden, 'Matthew' and Sam chasing them in one of the made-up-on-the-fly games. She watched as Draco and Sam would break apart, running toward a different group of huddled children, only to barely 'miss' them in order to keep the game going longer. The squeals and giggles made her smile, and when Draco looked over and caught her eye, smiling back at her, until attacked around his knees by a six year old with pigtails, Hermione knew that happiness had not been as far away as she had once thought. It had just been a matter of finding something to look forward to.


End file.
